


Simple as This

by Noname109



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Kidnapping, Blood and Injury, Disability, Disabled Character, Eventual Happy Ending, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Multi, Physical Therapy, Pining Lance (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-07-24 00:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noname109/pseuds/Noname109
Summary: After a tragic accident that lands Lance in the hospital, it leaves him second guessing who his true friends are, who he truly is, and if his jigsaw puzzle of a life has room for a certain body building, smoking hot, physical therapist.WIP; Updates Weekly





	1. Me Before You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work I’ve done in over 4 years, so I apologize for the absolute trash grammar and world building. 
> 
> Tags will change and so will warnings as chapters continue. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

It starts as this crescendo. This looming, growing beast of a thing. An ache, a pulse, a wave, a cry, a plea. 

There’s screaming, and yelling, and a crash of something so huge it reverberates down to the very core of everything. He can’t tell if it’s something he did, or if this is somebody else’s fault entirely. How could it be though, when it seems like he’s the only one even remotely shaken up? 

Hands fist in his short hair as the ringing starts in his ears. Are those his own? 

Chest heaving and lungs burning, he falls to his knees with a dull thud. Only then do people around him start to take any sort of notice, rushing towards him, away from him, he’s not sure. Gentle touches find themselves caressing his shoulders, someone whispering something in his ear, and then the world goes pitch black.

* * *

Sometime later, he starts to dream, or at least he thinks it’s a dream. His eyes are blurry and his hands slip and slide across tabletops until he finds the frames he dons his face with.

The world becomes clearer then, as does his reality - the racing of his thoughts as he realizes _this is not a dream_ , and that cloying feeling of dread fills the pit of his abdomen again, just like the first time.

Beeping of a machine pulls him out of his head. The room he’s in is empty, not counting him, two chairs, a bag on a long pole filled with fluids that is connected to his arm, and the machine making that god awful beeping sound. 

His head pounds. 

_Bam bam bam bam bam_.

The remote in his hand has a red button, one that looks like a call button, and he presses it once, vision beginning to fade in and out as his breathing continues to increase in rate at a rapid pace. 

Cold fingertips press into his arms, holding him down as his body twists and turns not of his own volition. His throat aches and burns, and distantly he can hear himself screaming in pain. _God_ , why does it hurt so badly?

And then it’s back into the darkness.

* * *

Next time he wakes, it’s much more peaceful. The incessant beeping and ticking and commotion is gone, leaving him in blissful silence. And the room isn’t empty this time around, as it’s a different room entirely.

Is there another person there? He dips in and out, unsure if he’s making it up or not.

As his head begins to clear of whatever they have dripping into his body via IV line, he realizes where he is. The air is stale and dry, as are the sheets under him. 

_Hospital_. 

There are big windows to his right that show the mountains and the trees littering their sides, peaks topped with glistening white snow. Peaking out over the horizon is the sun, moving down behind those glorious mountains as the moon rises to take its place. 

To his left is the rest of the hospital. He can see out into the hallway, he can see all the people gathered there. 

“Can you hear me?” He gazes back out the window. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge whoever says that or the others in the room as they start to pile in. Medical staff poke and prod at him for what feels like hours until, finally, they take their leave. The woman tries again. “Hello, do you hear me?”

He hums in response, only able to move his head from where he’s looking out the glass panes, to look at her. She’s tall and gorgeous, with slicked back gray hair. Her eyes are steel, and her face is solid, showing no emotions, no hint of a comfort. 

All business besides the clothes she’s wearing, which are colorful and floral, the exact opposite of the feelings radiating from her.

“Do you know what day it is?” She asks carefully, taking a seat and pulling it closer to where he’s lying on the bed that’s centered in the small, dimly lit room. She crosses her legs and rests her hands there. The scrape of the chair against linoleum makes his skin crawl just a little bit more than she does. 

He shrugs his shoulders, and a stinging pain shoots down his spine, making him wince. 

“Ow,” he croaks, voice hoarse. “Where am I?”

“Altea Memorial Hospital,” she recites back coldly, watching him warily. “Keep drinking water, the intubation tube caused some tracheal irritation. Your throat may hurt for some time.”

“Why am I here?” He tries adjusting himself where he’s propped up against the wall, and that burning comes back, but he’s unable to pinpoint where it’s coming from. It feels like it encapsulates his whole body in _heatpainhurt_. 

“Can you tell me what day it is?” She persists.

“I don’t fucking know, Thursday?” He tries pulling his arm up from where it lies limp at his side, and when he finally manages to get his hand up high enough to touch his head, he finds bare skin there. “What the fuck is going on?” He whispers, mostly to himself, tone turning sour as his gaze flits about the room. Someone else steps through the door, observing, remaining silent. His uniform suggests security, tools hanging from the belt around his hips. His hand twitches at his side, but he remains still otherwise. 

“Can you tell me your name?” She asks.

“Lance fucking McClain, now tell me what the fuck is fucking going on,” he demands, breath coming hot out of his nose as he seals his lips together, screwing them up tight in both pain and anger. He stares down the woman in front of him, a million questions flying through his brain all at once. He’s confused, in pain, and honestly he wants his mom. 

_God,_ what he’d do for a shot of tequila right now. The kind his grandma keeps locked in a closet in the hall that no one dares to touch. The kind that burns your throat so good and settles warm in your stomach. The kind that twists you up inside so that you don’t even remember why you started drinking it. 

“Lance, my name is Doctor Allura. You were in an accident. Can you tell me what happened?” 

Confusion twists his face up even tighter.

“An accident? When? How?” He asks after a beat.

“Mr. McClain, do you remember anything from that day?”

“From what day, how long has it been?” The doctor and the man in the corner exchange a look, and silence follows. “How long has it been?” He repeats, more fervently this time. 

“Mr. McClain, can you tell me the date?”

“I don’t know what day it is, but I know it’s August,” he tries. It takes one look on her face, and one glance back outside to make him realize he is wrong. Oh, _so_ wrong. Snow gently falls from the sky, fluttering to stick to the hospital window as it falls on the concrete ground outside. 

“December twenty first, two thousand and nineteen is the date. Your intake day was,” she peers down at the paper she grabs from the wall. “August seventeenth, two thousand eighteen.” 

Silence fills the room again like a toxic gas. It takes his breath away as he tries to wrap his head around this. 

“Do you remember anything from that day?” Allura wonders again. 

“No,” he says, but he can’t even hear it himself. That crashing wave of pain hits him again as he tries to take a deep, settling breath. His eyes slam shut. Allura reaches out and hits a button on the machine next to him, and starts moving about the room. 

“Are you in pain?” 

“Yes,” Lance croaks. 

“I’m going to give you a pain injection, it will start taking effect soon.”

He tries not to pay attention to her grabbing syringes and bottles from cabinets, changing needles and coming closer to him. Turning his head as she inserts it in a port in his arm, he watches the snow again. Compared to the chaos starting to build in this room, the weather outside looks... peaceful. Almost serene. 

“Would you like some time to yourself, or would you like the report from your intake?” She asks quietly, fiddling with settings on the monitors next to him. 

“A gist of what happened would be nice to know.”

Resuming her position in the chair next to him, she flips through pages stuck to a clipboard she grabbed from where it was hanging on the wall. 

There are pictures hanging there too, of him and his friends. Drawings hang low on the cork board, ones of him in different settings. Little notes are tacked here and there. Cards dangle precariously. 

“August seventeenth you came in at eleven thirteen at night via ambulance, and were taken into the emergency room. Three gunshot wounds were identified by emergency staff during triage, and four more were found during intake. Three of the seven were found in the abdomen, assumed to be shot at far range with his they pierced the tissue there. The other three were higher up and... at close range. Miraculously, six of the seven sites were shot straight through the body and no bullets were found. The one remaining bullet was removed in an emergency surgery taking place not an hour later, all seven —“ 

“Where was the bullet?”

“Pardon?”

“The bullet that was left, where... where was it?”

Does he even really want to know? He almost asks her not to answer but she’s too quick. 

“Your brain.” Those two words make his ears ring, and he doesn’t hear the rest of her story as she robotically reads the rest of his medical chart. He watches her lips move, but no sound can be heard. It’s when she looks up at him that he comes crashing back down into his own body. “You woke only once after your surgery. Since then you’ve been... asleep. Physical therapy classes start tomorrow. The injuries you sustained may hinder your ability to walk or use your extremities. Until then please rest, and use the call button if needed. Visiting hours are over, so your guest will need to wait to see you tomorrow.” 

Doctor Allura gets up to leave. 

“I have a guest?” 

“Yes, I believe he told me his name was... Chunk?”

“Hunk,” he breathes, something akin to happiness bubbling in his chest, or as close to happiness as he can get at this point. Maybe it’s gas.

“Ah, yes, Hunk. He’s been here every day since you’ve been here. He’ll be happy to know you’re awake. I’ll keep him posted. If you have further questions, feel free to ask any of the staff. They’re well briefed on your case. Goodbye, Lance.”

The doctor and the other man in the room take their leave, leaving the door open behind them. 

He sighs. It then turns into a cough that leaves him shaking under thin blankets that don’t keep him warm against the encroaching cold. His lungs feel like ice as a sob makes his chest ache. He tries in vain to stay quiet. 

Then that foggy feeling fills his head again, and the calm of the outside seeps into his little room. Distantly, he hears his door close, and heat envelopes his body. 

He drifts to sleep.

* * *

The warmth of the sun through the windows is what wakes him up. That, and the dozen or so people standing over him and rewiring this, and redoing that.

Time passes, people come in and out, but the only way to tell what time it is, is that damn sun that’s shining right in his eyes. 

“I’ll fix that for ya buddy,” a gruff voice says behind him, and suddenly his lap is full of someone, hugging him and poking him in all the wrong places. The blinds slam shut and he blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust.

“Ouch,” he huffs out.

“Sorry, sorry I forgot about the whole... y’know...” says the other person in the room, gesturing in his general direction. 

They’re small, shorter than his littlest sibling, with short, choppy hair and glasses too big for their face. He goes to adjust his own, but his arm stays where it is. He tries his other arm to no avail. 

“Hunk, could you push my glasses up?” He asks, and big warm hands touch his skin as his range of vision increases, frames moving up his nose. “Much better. Who is this?”

The person next to Hunk snorts and hits his knee. 

“Good to see you haven’t changed, buddy. How’re you feeling?” They ask, unperturbed. Hunk looks otherwise. 

“Uh... confused. Do I know you?”

“Dude, you’re fucking with me right?” They ask incredulously, leaning against his bed. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember your best friend.”  
“Hey, I’m his best friend. I earned those rights a long ti —“

“Oh wouldn’t you just love it if —“ 

“I’m sure he —“

Lance clears his throat. Luckily the remote with the call button is still wedged in his unmoving hand, and at least he gets his thumb to work. He presses down. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, or what you think you guys know but... dude, I don’t know you. Do you know Hunk or something?”

And then there’s that silence again as the light above his door blinks for help. He presses it again and it changes color. He’d be hitting it rapid fire if his stupid fingers would listen to his brain just a little bit faster, but it’s almost like there’s a delay. 

A nurse hurriedly bustles into the room, rolling her cart in that’s full of supplies and topped with a computer. 

“How can I help you? Is there an issue?” 

“Yeah, I —“ 

Before he can even get words out, Hunk is cutting him off. 

“He doesn’t remember Pidge and —“ 

“He doesn’t even fucking remember me!” This... Pidge person exclaims. 

The nurse blinks in confusion for a moment and then mumbles something about getting a doctor. Lance avoids eye contact with them.

“Hope this means I get out of having to get you a Christmas present,” Pidge grumbles, and Hunk knocks his shoulder, or really his hip, into theirs. They huff. 

Lance tries to shove down the guilt rising in his stomach.

He tries his hardest to pinpoint where he’s seen Pidge before. They look familiar... but really that’s it. Just another familiar face in the dozens he sees every day. It’s not like he feels like he knows this person... certainly for not as long as Hunk is saying he should. 

Maybe from the pictures?

Doctor Allura clears her throat and it pulls him out of his thoughts. 

She turns to Hunk and Pidge.

“Hunk, nice to see you again. Pidge, you too. Lance,” she drawls. “You’re having some issues with your memory, is that correct?”

“My memory is perfectly fine, I’m pretty sure Hunk is just fucking with me,” he snaps. “I just want to go to sleep, visiting hours are almost over anyway and I’m in pain. Just give me the drugs and leave me alone.” 

Stepping back, Hunk’s eyes start to look dewy. And then there’s that feeling of guilt he’s trying to stomp down on again. God, he wishes he could move his fucking arms. 

“If that’s what you want...” Hunk trails off, and looks down at Pidge. They just look angry, and they stomp out of the room. “Pidge, wait!” He calls after them, and leaves too. 

Allura remains where she stands. 

“That’s not any way to treat your friends.” Lance turns to stare out the window. “I’ll mention this to your physical therapist so they can add some memory training, and some testing, to your regimen.”

He can hear her turn on her heel and leave the room with a rush of air behind her that smells like candies. 

His brain feels muddled, and his muscles feel sore even though he hasn’t tried to move much of them today, let alone actually move them. 

Skin feeling tight, he scoots down in bed so his head is at least touching a pillow as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep. Hopefully when he wakes the nightmare will be over.

* * *

It’s not.

They wake him extra early, before the sun has even risen, to pull him out of bed and get him ready for therapy. Nurses and doctors do their poking at him, tubes and wires pulled away from his skin and finally he doesn’t feel sticky anymore. 

Embarrassingly, they have to hold him up and set him down on the porcelain of the toilet in order for him to relieve himself on his own, his legs and arms not wanting to work no matter how hard he wills them to. 

Cheeks burning, they continue on like nothing has happened. All business. Hunk must have brought clothes from home for him to change into, and he’s grateful. He doesn’t need to be flashing anybody when he starts strutting around this place. They do their best to change his clothes, lanky limbs uncooperative. 

He’s set carefully down into a wheel chair, and pushed out of his room for the first time in months. 

The halls are busy with people zooming in and out of each room, little bits of conversations buzzing from the doors left open. The air is clearer here, easier to breathe. 

Elevators didn’t used to bug him, but he can’t grasp onto the railing to brace himself and the wheelchair moves as the elevator whooshes up and down. 

Someone selects floor twelve and the person pushing him thanks them. 

Idle chatter begins, but he does not take part, instead focusing on the building around him and where he’s going. 

This floor is much less busy. Of course the staff are still hard working, flitting about, but there’s fewer patients, and it’s quieter overall. 

He’s rolled into a large room, bigger than his house for sure. There’s equipment littered about in an unmanaged fashion. Treadmills line one area in two rows, and some machines he doesn’t know what do line another. 

There’s only six or so people there, four of them look like they could be pro wrestlers, and the other two include him and a guy with no arms running like the fucking wind on one of the treadmills. 

He tries not to laugh - not at no arm guy, but just at the ridiculousness of his situation. Maybe they’ll have to cut his arms and legs off, and he’ll hop like a bunny on his dick. He snorts.

The guy pushing him in his chair pauses to check him in at the little desk as they walk through the door further, and the lady behind it says something about his physical therapist being down soon, he’s just running a little late. 

Then he’s alone with no way of moving. He tries not to focus on how terrifying that is, how helpless he feels. How _alone_ he suddenly, really, truly is. 

“Lance McClain?” Someone calls from behind him, and he snaps out of that train of thought before it outruns the tracks it’s on.  
“Yeah, that’s me. Can’t see ya, can’t turn to see ya, so I hope you can hear me,” he yells back. The next time the person speaks, he’s much closer, breath almost ghosting over his neck. A chill runs down his spine. 

“I can hear ya just fine. How are we doing today?” The man asks warmly, still not showing himself. Instead, he wheels Lance to the other side of the room, towards a set of couches surrounding a low table. The furniture looks plush and soft to the touch, the glass of the table covered in sheets of paper, which he assumes is his isn’t medical file. The man pauses and moves in front of him to move the chairs around to make room for him. 

He’s tall, taller than Lance, and built just like the rest of the guys here. Except his muscles look soft, and rounded out in a _I definitely don’t do steroids_ kind of way. Lance is almost jealous. His eyes trail down the rest of him, stopping at the stark, shiny metal of one of his arms. Little decals poke out here and there, colorful and bright and happy. 

Everything Lance isn’t. 

Lance must have been staring for longer than he thought he was, because the man chuckles. His cheeks burn. 

“Don’t worry, I get it all the time. Lost it in the war,” he states as if that’s something that happens every day. “And the ‘tattoos’ are my niece’s doing.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean —“ he starts, but the man waves his metal hand his way. 

“Don’t worry about it,” and turns this heart melting, shit eating grin on him. And yup, cheeks are still burning hot fucking tomato red. He takes a seat across from Lance after making sure Lance is comfortable almost pressed up against the wood lined table.

“So, tell me about you.” 

“Well,” Lance takes a deep breath and blows it out fast. “I got shot al —“

“No no, I know about all that. Tell me about _you_ ,” and he points that fancy metal finger at Lance and his heart almost fucking stops. 

He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, brain stuttering. 

“Uh... my favorite color is blue?” He finally gets out, voice cracking.

“Perfect! Let’s start there.” Shuffling through his bag next to him, he pulls out what looks like a pad of stickers. His nose flares as he carefully picks a blue star off the page. “Here,” and he presses it to Lance’s shirt. 

“Thanks?” Looking down at it, it glitters back up at him.

“My name is Shiro, star sticker extraordinaire.”

“Lance.” When Shiro reaches out to shake his hand, Lance almost laughs. “Would if I could,” he says instead, and does his best to shrug.

When that smile falters, Lance nearly feels bad. 

“My fault,” clearing his throat Shiro continues, smile firmly back in place like it never left. “So, welcome to your first day of training, cadet.”

###### 


	2. Me & You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, sorry this is a bit late. More to come very soon. :)
> 
> Song mentioned here is _Simple As This_ by Jake Bugg.

The first day makes him ache down to his very core. His bones feel broken, his muscles torn. It leaves him bed ridden, as if he had any other choice, for a little over three days. 

Lance’s insides are left twisting around themselves, nausea a constant lately. The shitty hospital food doesn’t help. Neither does the ever present looming loneliness. Since that first day, he’s had no visitors. The more he dwells on it, the more he wonders what happened within the year that he was... gone. For a whole year he was out of commission, laying here on a death bed. A part of him wishes he hadn’t woken up. 

He wonders if his family is okay. 

A knock on the door makes him turn. Well, do his best to turn at least. He can barely just see over his limp shoulder. 

Shiro is standing in the doorway, human arm pressed against the metal of the wall that matches his other, grin twisting his face up. He has laugh lines, or frown lines he’s not sure, that make his nose scrunch up, his forehead crease. His smile makes his chin and cheeks dimple with it. 

Lance’s heart jumps to beat a little harder in his chest, breath stuttering where it gets caught in the lump in his throat. His cheeks tinge pink against his will. 

“Thought I’d bring you a little pick-me-up before our session today, from the way the nurses have been talking about you it sounds like you might need it.” Shiro shrugs off the wall and thrusts his metal hand out towards Lance, cup gripped tightly in the fingers of it. Lance just stares dumbly at it, willing his arm to move to meet Shiro’s, but the appendage doesn’t move. Shiro’s grin turns sheepish then. “Part of the training, we’ll get there,” he encourages, and instead tips the cup against Lance’s lips then, letting him take a generous sip of the liquid inside. 

It tastes like spices, not like the ones his mama cooks with, but the ones that Hunk uses when he brews Lance a cup of tea when he’s sad. It warms him down to his core, and he hums appreciatively. Slumping back against the bed, he lets his muscles go all loose and gooey. 

“Thanks, that’s good.” 

Shiro’s smile gets impossibly bigger. 

“Good, I made it myself in the cafeteria, mixed a couple of different teas together. I didn’t know if you were a tea man, or a coffee man, so I got you both and just hoped for the best.” 

Lance does his best to shrug but it comes out looking like a mini stroke. 

“Either is fine, I prefer cold over hot, but it’s been so cold the hot is goooooood,” he drags out the word to prove his point and that pulls a small laugh out of Shiro.

“Got you feeling ready for trial number two?” Shiro teases, and Lance groans. 

“Nothing,” he says explicitly, “could get me ready for trial number two. It’s frickin’ torture. No offense,” he tacks on and throws a wink at the end of it. It makes Shiro bristle slightly, and his grin falters only a little bit before it’s tacked back firmly in place. 

“Well, you better get ready. Today is arm exercises.”

Lance snorts. 

“Couldn’t tell.” 

“Cmon, I’ll get you in your Lance-Mobile,” Shiro says, setting the, presumably, coffee down on the table. He’s gone for only a moment out of the room while he grabs Lance’s wheelchair. It gives Lance a chance to take a deep breath to clear his head. 

Shiro’s ghost leaves behind the smell of Old Spice — like he’s in a gym shower with twenty other guys bathing in pure testosterone. It makes his nose scrunch up in distaste. Of course a huge, beefy dude like Shiro who works with defenseless disabled people would wear a cologne that smells like dude-smell on crack. 

He takes another long inhale of it anyway. It warms his chest. Maybe that’s the tea.

Shiro practically dances back into the room with an energy Lance wishes he could match. His smile is still fucking blinding and Lance just scoffs, grumbling to himself about people being too goddamn happy these days. 

Shiro helps him swing his legs so he’s sitting in the middle of the bed with nothing propping him up. He teeters there for a moment, on the precipice of either pulling off a fucking awesome stunt, or face planting so hard he’ll break teeth. However, Shiro catches him as he topples forward, and helps him down into the chair, getting him situated so he’s comfortable. 

“Off we go!” Lance cheers, and if he could, he’d be pumping his fist in the air. Shiro does it for him. His chest grows warmer right where his heart rests, behind his aching ribs as he lets out an unbridled laugh. 

They roll off through the stale halls of the hospital. At this hour, meanly the middle of the day, there’s barely anyone new here. He sees the same faces as yesterday, and there’s maybe two other patients here. 

“Hey, what wing are we in? Like, what are all these cool kids called?” Lance asks, trying to fit together what him and the rest of these people have in common. They’re all elderly, using walkers or wheelchairs, or either zonked out so hard they’re drooling where they lay.  
“Physical therapy ward, my domain. Usually people coming out of rehab, accidents, or replacement surgeries.” Shiro shrugs his shoulders then, not offering any further explanation. 

They travel in silence after that, up and down ramps, across whole rooms full of people, and finally to the room that Lance recognizes.  
And that _fucking_ dude on the treadmill. If he had arms, they’d be flapping in the wind he’s making. 

“What’s that guys fucking deal?” Lance asks quietly enough that only him and Shiro would hear it. He doesn’t want to get beat up by a dude with no arms. He’d never live it down. To be fair, Lance doesn’t stand a chance whether or not he’s... impaired, lanky and paper thin as he is.

“Sometimes it’s the only way people cope,” is all Shiro says as he smiles kindly to the woman behind the check in desk. She blushes against the force of that beautiful smile of his, and Lance only has the flying feeling of jealousy, but he squishes in down and in turn turns his own charm on. 

“Shiro, you didn’t tell me about the hot babes around here or I’d totally come up here more often,” he tries, and _god_ he _really_ thinks he’s gonna get away with it, especially with the whole can’t use his arms, can’t use his legs thing. 

Except she just sneers at him, the expression only changing as she hands Shiro his pass with a small smile. 

As Shiro wheels him away, he feels that breath ghost his neck again as Shiro leans down. 

“Not gonna work on her, she swings for the... other... team,” Shiro says through a smile, Lance can just _hear_ it in his voice. Lance flushes. 

“W-well you never know. She could be swinging for the Lance team anyways. No one can deny Lance,” Lance says, fingers twitching in embarrassment. 

Shiro just straightens and laughs breathily to himself. 

“Whatever you say, Lance.” 

Today they work on his finger strength. They start with a pen and paper in his lap. Shiro places his hands there and guides him to write the alphabet. 

“It looks like a fucking toddler wrote this.” Lance blows air out of his nose all at once, and harshly. If he could slam the pen down in frustration he would. 

“Better than me when I had to do this,” Shiro says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not taking every molecule of Lance’s entire _being_ not to pitch a fit right here in the middle of the fucking physical therapy department. In front of fucking no arms dude. He’d never let someone as badass as that watch him fall apart. 

Shiro turns to his bag next to him and starts rummaging through it. They’re back where they met, in the circle of plush couches Lance wishes he could sink into and take a long, definitive nap. 

He sighs again, pointedly. 

Shiro pulls out a box of crayons with what Lance takes as an evil smile. 

“Draw whatever you want, just let me know what color you’d like.” 

They sit in a long, pregnant silence as Lance does his best to draw... something. The crayons and crazy no arms guy are the only things making noise. Shiro clears his throat. 

“Is it okay if I play some music? Patients seem to do better when I do,” he asks, and then rushes to affirm Lance. “It’s okay if you say no, I know some people really work better in silence.” 

“Music is fine,” Lance tries to shrug again, and this time it’s a little better but still slanted and not quite the full ordeal. This makes Shiro grin that magic smile. 

Lance is starting to think he’d do just about anything to see that smile. 

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, and focuses back on drawing... whatever green blob he’s making.

Shiro flicks through his phone for a long time before he settles on a song. It blasts loudly, but no one but Lance seems to care. 

He furrows his brow in disgust. 

“What the fuck is this?” He almost growls. “Has music gotten shitty since I was last a person?” 

Shiro’s face goes through about twenty different emotions in the matter of a few seconds. Hurt, at first, and then settling on amusement. 

“What? You don’t like my music?” He asks, and turns it up. 

“God,” Lance fake gags. “This is garbage. What are you, like eighty?” 

“Close.” 

Lance tries to hide the smile on his face, almost burying himself in his drawing as he continues. He shouldn’t be so determined to show Shiro he’s doing better, but he just _is_ , dammit. 

His tongue pokes out between his teeth, and against his better judgement starts to hum along to the song. 

He doesn’t miss Shiro’s responding beam of fancy, straight teeth and big, happy eyes. 

The strum of the guitar is catchy, even if it sucks absolute _ass_. The singer sounds all kinds of left high and dry. And he really shouldn’t have started listening to the lyrics because it just gets worse. 

“You have the worst taste in music, Shiro,” he complains. Shiro just keeps on smiling and watching him. In a moment like this, it makes him forget that Shiro’s being paid to be his friend. He lets himself forget, at least for a little bit. 

He stays there, in the little bubble of artificial happiness, for as long as he can. Shiro plays shitty music for what seems like hours. And, well, if his foot taps a little bit here and there, he just blames it on the brain damage. 

“So what kind of music do you like?” Shiro asks finally.

“The good kind,” Lance says with a snort, crayon twisting in his hands. They’re barely working, and it’s taking all of his concentration just to draw this line by line. His fingers are a trembling mess that only makes the picture more so. 

They both leave it at that as the last song on whatever Shiro’s playlist was comes to a close. 

“Well that’s our time,” Shiro pronounces with a slap to his thighs. The sound rings in his ears, breaking him out of his little day dream fantasy. 

“Right, right. Gotta get me to bed before curfew,” Lance says, trying to get that tinge of sadness out of his voice. He glances out at the big windows of the left of the room, and he sees the moon hanging low in the sky. Shiro folds the drawing, albeit more of a mass of color than anything, and sticks it in his back pocket. He slings his bag over his shoulder, the metal one. It makes a clicking sound as the rings of the strap hit his wrist. 

“Or,” Shiro lingers on the word and leaves Lance hanging. 

“Or what?” 

“Do you trust me?” Shiro asks after a moment, and Lance pauses, trying to read the expression on Shiro’s face. His eyes are squinted almost shut, staring Lance down. His mouth is in a thin line. 

After a pause Lance inhales sharply and lets it out all in one go, albeit shaky. 

“Yes.” 

Shiro smiles then and jumps to Lance’s side, sliding behind his wheelchair with ease, pulling him away from the table. 

“Perfect. Just act natural, and don’t answer any questions anyone asks you.” 

“Wha —“

“Let’s go.”

And then the wheels of his chair are screeching across the linoleum and Shiro is running, yes running, at full speed out of the physical therapy room. 

It leaves Lance breathless in that good, almost drunk feeling kind of way. A laugh rips itself from his lungs as they race to the elevator. This time of night, the only people up this high are staff. They get asked no questions as Shiro selects a floor, and as the doors open, they’re racing again through the empty halls. 

If he had any remaining hair, it’d be blowing around in all sorts of directions because of how fast they’re traveling. 

Up, up, up they go until they’re in front of a door that has a big sign. Lance can’t read it, it’s out of his line of sight, but they plunge through it so he doesn’t have to be left guessing for long. 

“Welcome to my secret hideaway.”

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My New Tumblr](http://www.voltrons-oracle.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading :)


	3. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. :)

Again, Lance is knocked off his feet. 

_Ha._

Metaphorically, of course. 

Shiro must have really thought this out. Either that, or he’s just low key bumming on the hospital roof instead of spending all his hard earned cash — cash earned pretending to be his friend, he reminds himself — on a fucking decent place to live. 

“I thought maybe after today’s session you’d be tired, so I left my morning gear up here. Not sure what kind of hobbies you’re into but... figured maybe if I shared some of mine, it’d be easier to share some of yours.”

The night is beautiful. The moon is full as far as Lance can tell. It’s big, bright, and hanging so low that he feels like maybe, just maybe, if he could get his arms to work he’d be able to catch it in the palm of his hand and bring it down. 

He’d share that special prize with Shiro and _maybe he’d get one back._

In the middle of the roof, or at least the small bit they’re populating, is a blanket held down by potted plants on the four corners. He’s wheeled over to it, and there’s a silent question as Shiro reaches down to lift him up, and Lance leans into the touch giddily. 

“I’ve always loved the stars. You could see them so well where I grew up, and then I moved into the city and couldn’t see them anymore. This... is beautiful. Thank you.”

It’s almost too grand of a gesture to handle. His eyes get dewy. 

Shiro slowly lowers him to the ground, laying him down gently. Lance ignores the bite of the metal arm, and the stark coldness to it. 

The blanket isn’t much cushion against the concrete, but it’s enough that as long as Lance shifts every could minutes, he stays comfortable. The night sky is dark and ever looming, vast and mysterious. Shiro lays down beside him, all heat. 

Lance stares dumbly up at it. The air up here is crisp and clear, cold in his burning lungs. He takes a deep breath, and when he lets it out through parted, chapped lips, he’s met with a cloud of smoke. It’s still quite cold from the bitter winter, but there’s not a cloud in the sky, and no snow to be seen. 

They lay like that for several, unspoken minutes before Shiro clears his throat. 

“You know, I always wanted to be an astronaut. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with flying and space and all the constellations. I would beg my parents to let me stay up late enough to see them every night. I lost a lot of sleep from that,” Shiro recalls fondly. “I was drafted too young. Well... not drafted per se, but they recruited me into it so much that... it was impossible to get out of. I was in the Air Force for six years before...” he trails off, and Lance fills in the blanks. 

“How’d it happen?” 

Shiro’s breath slows. Stops maybe. But he continues nonetheless. 

“Grenade,” is all he says. Just barely a whisper. 

“How long ago?” 

“Three years.” 

It makes Lance stop breathing too. His hand finds Shiro’s — his human hand. 

After what seems like an eternity, Shiro drops his grip to rest it on his abdomen. 

“Do you do this with all your patients?” Lance asks, and watches as a sad smile spreads across Shiro’s face. They turn to face each other. 

“So far, yeah,” he says. Lance’s heart drops in his chest. He turns back to himself. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “That’s nice of you. Does it help with like... team bonding or something?” 

“Not sure yet, this is my first try.” 

“Oh,” Lance breathes again, but this time without a heavy heart. This time it’s because he’s knocked fucking breathless again. He’s getting sick of that. He tries his best to hide his shy smile that’s as bright as the big, bright moon in the sky.

And then Shiro’s hand is back in his, a welcome warmth against the biting cold. 

“I like coming up here in the mornings before rounds. The moon is out sometimes, and you can see the stars still. You can watch the sun rise. It’s really peaceful.”

They lay like that for a long time, pressed together in a firm line that leaves half of Lance’s body sweating, and the other half bitterly cold. His glasses even steam up with it.

“We should probably get you back before they start calling CPS on me.” 

Lance laughs harshly at that, his stomach jumping with it. 

“I guess, yeah.”

Except neither of them make a move to do so. It’s not like Lance could if he wanted to, but he also really doesn’t want to. Laying next to Shiro is making this ooey gooey feeling fill his veins until they’re sluggish. Until his eyes are fighting to stay open even though the view is so good. Too good to be falling asleep over. 

Everything after his eyes slide shut is a blur. He knows he’s grumbling something to Shiro, almost unintelligible, as he’s scooped up. He’s trembling like a thin leaf in the wind, but Shiro’s body stabilizes his. 

He feels like a little kid falling asleep after a late dinner out with his family. God, there was this beautiful Mexican restaurant he misses from home. He’d give anything to stuff himself full, fall asleep in the car, and be carried into the house like he’s nine years old all over again. 

Kind of like how Shiro is carrying him like he’s a feather. 

Then there’s a cushion under his head, and he mumbles out a thank you as his dreams take over. 

* * *

The next morning he wakes feels like Lance is waking in the pits of _hell_.

His lungs _burn_ like he’s just run a marathon and a half. His chest aches, and there’s so much buzzing in his head that he just wants it to _stop_.

His mouth feels like cotton, and his hands grip at anything they can, begging for purchase. 

Vaguely, distantly, he can hear someone asking him questions he can’t answer over the thick of his throat. Then there’s what feels like a million little kitten paws on him, tearing at his skin. 

A scream rips itself from that pit of his chest.

Then it goes dark. 

* * *

Next he wakes, it’s better. There’s someone at his bedside, holding his numb hand and dull fingers. 

There’s someone to both his right and left, each holding his hands. He wiggles his fingers, and he hears whispers. Maybe they’re talking at full volume, he can’t really tell. 

The buzz of talking is what lulls him back to sleep. 

* * *

He dreams of Shiro. Hunk is there too. And that little Pidge person. They’re talking to him, telling him something but it’s like he’s behind a glass wall, unhearing. 

There’s pounding on that wall, all their faces contorting in such a way that it makes Lance’s veins go cold.

“What?” He shouts back. 

And then all at once: 

“Wake up.” 

* * *

Lance is really fucking sick of waking with a start. For once, he’d like the world to either decide to put him out of his misery and lay him down for the long sleep, or let him sleep while having some nice dreams for once instead of creepy ones with forgotten friends. 

“So, what do you remember?” Shiro asks him one night. It’s late, after hours and technically he should count as a visitor but the nurses are either too nice, or he’s just too pretty to be kicked out. He balances a coffee cup carefully on his knee that’s propped up against the edge of Lance’s bed. He watches the steam rise out of it. It dissipates quickly in the cold of the room. “Do you remember... like who did it?”

Lance shakes his head. 

“I only just remember bits and pieces.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

One of the things he appreciates about Shiro is he asks these grand questions and then doesn’t pry. He lets Lance think it out while staring out into the blank sky beyond. 

His brain strains as he hopes to recall a piece of anything. 

“I was in a grocery store getting cake frosting for my sister’s birthday party.”

“Do you remember Pidge at all now? Has anything else come back?”

“No.”

The finality of that little word scares him. Will he ever get it back? 

“We’ll keep trying. We can try out some different exercises tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Sure.”

The steam from the drink is the only thing between them for a while. 

“I still don’t remember chunks from the war. I forgot all about what led up to me losing my arm. I have... friends that tell me what happened, but it’d be nice to remember it.” Shiro sighs and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, knee bouncing dangerously under his drink. “You’ll get it back. It’s just temporary.”

“Mm.” Lance looks up at that spot on the ceiling too, like they’re back looking up at the stars. “I wish I could go back and do it differently.”

“Me too.”

They ignore the spilled coffee when Shiro reaches out too quickly to catch his fingers in a quick embrace before he’s dancing out the door in a rush of air. 

The smell lingers for a long time, long after Lance drifts to a dreamless sleep.

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My New Tumblr](http://www.voltrons-oracle.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading :)


	4. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. :)

Waking up never gets old.

At least that’s what Lance tells himself to get through the seemingly endless onslaught of new day after day. After a while it gets... old. 

He does the same damn thing every day. And sure, Shiro helps a _lot_. He helps Lance get his penmanship back for one, and secondly he makes him feel like he’s human, and not some garbage mistake. 

Because that’s sure as hell how he’s starting to feel. A big old sack of filthy rat garbage. 

Really, this situation unfolding in front of him is just making it inevitably worse. 

Doctor Allura is positioned facing towards a scowling Pidge who just stares him down so hard that Lance can feel his soul on display for them to see. 

“So, tell me what you last remember of Pidge,” Allura starts off, and Pidge huffs, crosses their arms in front of their chest, legs crossing too. Totally cutting him off. 

“I mean, besides right now?” 

“Still a smart ass, huh?” Pidge grinds out. “You lost your memory of me but not being a jackass?” 

“Pidge!” Allura looks appalled and Pidge just shrugs it off. Lance does too, turning his gaze to the sheets, stalling while his brain does the same. It stutters on something that could be a memory, but at this point he’s not sure what’s memory and what’s dream. Correction: nightmare. 

“Look, like I said I still have nothing. What I remember before the... accident is little to nothing. Nothing. Nada. Zip-a-dee-doo-da.” 

He pulls at the sheets in his nervousness while Doctor Allura mulls it all over, jotting things down on the notebook in her lap. Pidge just taps their foot impatiently. 

“I don’t have all the time in the world to get this shit figured out, I’m meeting Matt at Lazeretto Deli in twenty minutes,” Pidge bites out, harsh as a knife. Despite their tone, this makes Lance perk up. 

“Matt? I remember him. Long hair, about yeh high?” Lance does his best to hover his arm in the air for a second or two and the muscles shake and twitch, still not used to moving around like that. Pidge huffs a bitter laugh again. 

“So you don’t remember me, your best friend for what the past like ten fucking years? But you remember my estranged freak of a brother? Yeah, I’m done here.” 

“Pidge, wait —“ 

“You know, I’m sick of storming out of this place.” 

And that’s what Lance is left to deal with as Allura rushes out after a fuming Pidge. 

Lance pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers. The rest of him tremors as silent tears track down his cheeks. When someone comes in the room with a quiet pitter patter of feet, he turns to face the window, wiping at the wetness on his face. 

“Not really up for visitors,” he sighs, folding his arms over himself as a comfort, but it really isn’t one. The hand that slips into his is, though. 

“Just me,” Shiro whispers back, sliding himself into the chair next to Lance’s bed. His shoulders sag and he deflates with a shaky breath. “It’ll be okay.” 

“How the fuck do you even know that?” Lance spits. “You have no idea what I’m going through. I was _shot_. They don’t even know who it was. You really think you know what I’m going through? I lost _everything_ and everyone. My family hasn’t even _called_!” 

Shiro stays silent, lets him cry against the sheets. Holds his hand, and rubs his human thumb against Lance’s skin in comforting circles. He doesn’t say a word, just sits there with Lance while he falls apart. 

“We have to stop hanging out like this,” Shiro finally says, and Lance coughs out a wet laugh. 

“You got that right.” Their hands part so Lance can clean himself up with a tissue held haphazardly to his eyes. “They say I can go home soon.”

Shiro breathes sharply then and their eyes meet. 

“That’s good.” 

Lance nods slowly. 

“Yeah.” 

Shiro nods back. 

“I should go,” Shiro breathes. “But I don’t want to.” 

“I don’t want you to either.” Lance blames his lack of filter on the drugs that they are definitely not pumping him full of anymore. But whatever. Still makes him blush bright red. Shiro’s ears turn pink too. 

“I have another patient that I have to... you know...” 

“Oh,” Lance breathes. But Shiro doesn’t look away from where his eyes are locked onto Lance’s. He doesn’t pull away, in fact he leans in so close that they’re almost touching. 

“Oh Shiro! There you are, my boy! Allura was looking for you and — oh, hello, Lance! Glad you’re feeling better.” 

“Coran, I’ll be right there,” Shiro says, and still doesn’t break away from Lance, where they’re pressed together. It makes his breath come fast, makes his heart pound where it is unsettled in his chest. 

“Alright, my boy. I’ll be waiting!” 

Coran swishes down the hall, bright orange scrubs making him look like a traffic cone. 

When Shiro turns back to him, he freezes, stops breathing. He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t dare even _think_ too hard, lest he break this little thing they have going on. 

Shiro gives a reassuring squeeze to his hand. 

“I’ll be back.” 

And like that he’s gone again, strong legs pulling him out of the room faster than Lance can blink. He lets the breath go out of his lungs that he was holding. 

He starts trembling again. 

This time, with a smile.

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re getting there. Muwahahahaha.


	5. Something to Live For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. :)

It’s another week before they even go back to talking about discharging Lance. He’s progressing well in his physical therapy. He’s able to wiggle some toes if he really thinks about it. And his fingers have been swifter in movements, less blocky and underperformed. 

He’s able to hold more and more weights, but it’s difficult to pick them up when his abs are so... flat. Next to Shiro he feels tiny. Like a kid. 

Shiro watches him for one of the last times as he pulls his arm up in a curve, kettle bell in hand. It only weighs five pounds, but after one hundred reps it feels like a thousand. He’s left breathless and sweaty when he drops it on the floor, signaling Shiro that he’s done. 

His spine is a live wire, his skin on fire, his face and body flushed and sparkling in the light. The sweat clings to his flesh, leaving tracks and traces in his light colored shirt, and all down his cheeks. 

Breathing hard, he wheels himself over to where Shiro is lounging on one of the couches. Pushing his own chair leaves him weak in the elbows and shoulders, and he puffs out a hot breath when he comes to a stop in front of his physical therapist. 

He tries to pretend they’re not more, but his brain still trails off when he starts to think about it. 

Shiro is playing more terrible music, loud and obnoxious. It makes Lance’s lips quirk up into a little smile. 

“Hey big guy, how was today’s session?” Shiro asks, standing up from where he was sitting as he checks Lance’s arms and hands over. 

“Better today, I got one twelve in so I broke my record today. I just feel like shit now but I guess it’s worth it. Means I get out of here sooner.” 

Lance pretends not to see Shiro’s smile falter a little, tries not to see the fakeness of it when it’s plastered back into place. 

“Yeah, today is the big day, huh?” Shiro asks, quieter this time, less boisterous. His thumb traces a pattern against the inside skin of Lance’s wrist. They both watch that spot where they’re connected. 

Lance hums in agreement, not trusting his voice, where it’s caught beneath the bubble forming in his throat threatening to close him off from air, anxiety working its way into his chest. It sits heavy there. Boring a hole. 

“Better get you back then,” Shiro says, and moves to get his bags ready. 

“Hunk is picking me up and I’m staying at his place for a while. I guess he talked to my... my mom. She said she’ll come get me when... you know, I’m out and all that.”

“That’s good,” Shiro replies absentmindedly, and he starts wheeling Lance out of the room. 

“I guess.” Lance runs his hands through the short stubble of his hair that’s started to grow back. His hand shakes a little bit. He places it back down in his lap and stares at the floor the rest of the ride back to his room. Through this hallway and that, Shiro and him make their way in silence. The tension hangs there like a weighted curtain, both too nervous to push it back and face the reality of what’s on stage. 

Shiro clears his throat. 

“I’ll bring you up some coffee, they got the good stuff in this time. Coran ordered the kind you like so much,” he says, and Lance smiles again as he’s pushed back into his room, helped into his own bed, legs uncooperative. “Coran will probably be up to do some... final tests.”

They leave it at that, Shiro refusing to say goodbye or anything remotely close. Lance wonders if this is it. If this is where they part, where Lance just goes on with his life pretending that the past few weeks, few months, haven’t been spent in the company of someone he’s becoming quite... fond of. 

Sadness makes his heart skip a beat. He swallows hard. 

“Lance?” He hears a little voice say. When he turns his head to see who is standing there, his heart stutters again. Stops. Starts again. 

A little girl stands there, small, twisty curls pinned against her head with several colorful clips. She holds a teddy bear with the hospital logo on the front of its shirt. Her dress is floral and bright, with glittery sparkles. Her shoes match.

“Veronica?” He breathes. It’s too good to be true. 

That stupid bullet in his head must have finally gotten to him. 

One moment his bed is empty, then in the next it’s a swarm of people, of gifts, of balloons and flowers and is that... a toy gun? 

A laugh bubbles up out of his heavy chest and tears spring to his eyes. 

His family surrounds him, chattering happily in Spanish, some in English. Their arms are full to the brim with food and happy things. A few moments ago, Lance’s room was dark, gloomy, and cold. In the next, it’s a bright rainbow of warmth. Of his _family_. 

Veronica sits between his limp legs, his arms are around her middle, and she plays with her plush friend, letting him frolic through Lance’s sheets. 

His mom holds onto his grandma’s arm, talking to her and his father who sits down in one of the chairs next to Lance’s bed. He pops his feet up to rest on the end of it, letting his arms go behind his head. 

“Guys... what are you doing here?” Lance asks, breathless. 

“Hey, Lance they only had the Hawaiian flavor and — whoa,” Shiro calls, and stalls as he sees all the people crowding into the small area of his room. 

Lance cackles. God, it rolls out of him in a big wave that leaves him heaving, leaves tears trailing down his cheeks. 

“Oh my god, you should see the look on your face!” He points at Shiro who is just bright red and frozen in place as his mom fawns over him and his multitude of muscles. Lance’s dad huffs and puffs his chest out, pulling Lance’s mom away with a grumble. 

“Leave the poor man alone,” his dad growls out, and his mom just laughs and pats Shiro’s bicep a couple times. 

“Lance, you didn’t tell us you got yourself a boyfr —“ 

“MOM!” 

This makes everyone but him and Shiro laugh. Lance meets his eyes, which are bright but nervous. And he’s still bright red, holding two cups of... something. He offers one of them to Lance’s mother, and she takes it gratefully. 

“Such a gentleman you have here!” She exclaims, teasing Lance to no end. 

Lance groans. 

“Mom, we’re just —“ 

“Mrs. McClain we’re just —“ 

“Friends,” they both settle on at the same time. But the look exchanged between them says different. Maybe Lance is reading too much into it. Maybe not. Whatever. 

Lance’s mom hums and sips at her drink. 

“I see.” 

Conversation continues like nothing has ever happened. Lance eats some of the chocolates they brought him. Shiro stays and stands against the back wall, chatting up Lance’s grandparents. 

They all talk for a long time. Lance plays with his baby sister, poking and tickling her, making her giggle. It makes him crack a smile that is pure happiness. 

He feels eyes on him, and the chattering dies down a little. When he looks up, his dad has nodded off, his mom not too far behind him. His grandparents are still muttering in broken English to Shiro who does his best to charm them. 

They make eye contact. Shiro smiles. Lance’s heart does this little pitter patter dance that makes blood rush in his ears and to his cheeks. But he can’t pull himself to look away. 

Shiro looks away first as Lance’s grandma pulls at his sleeve to get his attention again. 

When a nurse pops her head in to tell them all that visiting hours are almost over, it makes Lance sad for the first time in what feels like a long time. 

The kindness of his family almost makes him forget that ache in his belly. 

Almost. 

They all leave slowly. His grandparents leave first, but not before giving Shiro kisses on his cheeks that leave both him and Lance tinged pink all over.

His dad grabs Veronica and his brothers and they head to the cafeteria so his mom can say goodbye. 

She grabs Lance by the shoulders and stares him down for a few long seconds. 

“My boy,” she starts, “I would never leave you.” 

She places a kiss on the top of his mostly bald head. She turns then and does the same to Shiro, and then she is gone. 

Lance watches the doorway for a long time after she’s left. Long enough not to notice Shiro sitting next to him. When fingers poke at his own, posing a silent questions, Lance holds his hand palm up so they can wind their digits together. 

“They’re nice,” Shiro notes, clucking his tongue. “Your grandparents have a very... colorful way of telling stories about you.” 

Shiro turns this shit eating grin on him and Lance just rolls his eyes as he settles back against his pillows. He lets out a little happy sigh as his and Shiro’s fingers dance together. 

“I was a shit child.” 

“From what they were saying, you were a poster child for perfection.” 

That makes Lance snort. 

“Yeah, right.” 

The dark of night seeps in and with it the depression is back. Shiro holds it at bay for a little bit. 

“I should —“ 

“Don’t.” Lance breathes, and turns to face Shiro. 

Shiro’s lashes are so long. Lance never noticed until he was sitting this close to him. Shiro’s eyes search his for a moment. His metal hand reaches up to ghost over the skin of Lance’s cheek. 

Lance sighs again, leaning into it. Shiro’s metal arm doesn’t yield any warmth like his other hand does, but the thought is still there. 

“I want to kiss you right now,” Shiro breathes, but it’s so quiet that Lance second guesses whether or not he really said it. “But I should —“ 

“Do it,” Lance dares, and their eyes lock. 

And it’s in this moment that Lance decides he’ll never get old of those long lashes fluttering as Shiro closes his eyes, as he leans in, breath ghosting over Lance’s blushing face. He’s never going to get old of how Shiro’s hand tightens against his own. He’ll never get old of the press of those lips against his.

Shiro presses in so close that Lance stops breathing. Their lips meet and it’s not this world changing, colliding thing. 

But it also _is_. 

Shiro drops his hand so he can hold Lance’s face tenderly, so they can turn it into something deeper than a chaste press of lips. 

When Shiro starts licking into his mouth, starts pressing in closer, that’s when Lance starts breathing again, heart rate ratcheting up about twenty beats more per second. 

Lance’s fingers find that one layer of hair longer than the rest on Shiro’s head, and he threads them there, pulling him in impossibly closer. 

When they split, when they become two people again, Shiro presses his forehead against Lance’s. Lance keeps his eyes closed, too afraid to open them and find out this was all some sort of twisted alternate reality his brain made up. Instead of doing that, he just holds Shiro there with trembling hands, their breath mixing where their mouths are still so close they’re almost touching. 

“I wish I could dance with you,” Lance sighs. 

“Someday,” Shiro breathes back. 

“Promise?” 

“I promise.”

And if they stay that way, pressed together in a line where he can’t tell if that’s his leg or Shiro’s, for longer than they should, well... Lance sure doesn’t mind. He doesn’t even stir when his mom comes back to retrieve her forgotten purse.

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the calm before the storm! 
> 
>  
> 
> [My New Tumblr](http://www.voltrons-oracle.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading :) 
> 
> More to follow very soon.


	6. Something to Die For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. :)

The second time that Shiro kisses him, it’s bittersweet. His measly possessions he’s grown to collect are in a plastic bag with the hospital logo on it. Coran and doctor Allura have already run their tests, all the paperwork has been signed and filed away, and Lance’s bed is made, the room clean as if no one has ever been in it. 

His wheelchair isn’t as nice as the hospital’s one he’s been using, but it has some stickers on it, and little things that make it his. The blue wheels glint in the light of the room as Shiro leans in, all big eyes and silent questions. 

When their lips meet, a happy sigh passes from Lance’s lips. Shiro swallows the sound he makes, and his hands hold his chair steady so they can continue their not so PG rendition of their goodbyes. 

Discharge papers stated that his insurance no longer covered Shiro’s services, and he’d have to go to a different physical therapist for the time being. 

Even though he knew it was coming, it still felt like a kick to the skull. Or a bullet to one, anyway. 

Shiro plants one last, sweet kiss on his lips before pulling away. Lance’s hands tremble where they’re tucked in against his sides. Sure, they’d exchanged numbers, and Shiro could easily break the law and pull all his address information and contact information from his digital medical record, but still. 

It still left Lance wondering _what comes after this_? 

Shiro’s touches linger over his cold skin, and he rubs one last little circle into the palm of Lance’s hand before stepping totally back, out of Lance’s space. He attaches Lance’s bag to the back of his chair and grins that big, all teeth and sunshine smile. 

It reminds Lance of the first time they met. When Shiro had been so patient and kind and just so... _Shiro_. 

Lance’s heart melts a little bit. 

“Your mom is downstairs waiting with Hunk and Pidge. Do you... need any help getting downstairs?” Shiro asks, almost shy. Lance thinks it over. Shiro helping him would mean more fingers pressed into places they shouldn’t be. Helping him would mean more time together, and Lance’s pour, pounding heart just can’t take it. 

He shakes his head. 

“I got it. Thank you for, you know... everything,” Lance says, and with shaking hands gestures to the whole room. Shiro’s smile is small and kind. 

“Of course. I’ll see you around, Lance.” 

“Yeah... see you around.” Lance replies, throat thick with emotion. He gets a start on rolling himself out of the room before he lets his eyes get wet with unshed tears. 

Regardless of whatever they have between them, Shiro was his _friend_. He was the only one he could relate to about the whole clusterfuck of a situation he was in. 

When he gets on the elevator, his phone starts ringing, loud and obnoxious. He huffs a sigh and turns to the nurse in the elevator with him. 

“Could you grab that out of my bag for me?” 

With a kind smile, she retrieves his cellphone out of the sack of his things. 

_Unknown Number_ flashes across the screen in bright letters. And even though he was out of it for a year and some months, he can still work a touch screen, dammit. 

Maybe. 

The nurse ends up helping him swipe to answer. 

He does his best to hold the phone up to his ear. 

“Uh, hello?” 

“I miss you,” he hears someone say gruffly. Lance breathes a relieved laugh. 

“I’ve been gone for five minutes.” 

“This floor is already boring without you. Even no arms guy thinks so, he told me.” 

“Oh, did he now?” Lance teases, smile pulling his lips up. “What else did he have to say about hot little Lance?” 

Shiro snorts. 

“Says he’d love to tap it.” 

Lance full of laughs at that. 

“Yeah, right.” 

“You’re right, those were my own thoughts, never mind.” 

Another laugh shared between them, albeit a little awkward after Shiro’s bluntness. Maybe it’s the hospital air getting to him finally. 

The elevator doors open and he shoves the phone into the crook of his neck and his shoulder so he can make his way down the halls he’s grown to know so well. 

“You know, you’re holding me up. My poor mom probably thinks I’m stuck somewhere.” As he rounds the corner, he realizes that might be becoming more true by the moment. This hall he thought led him to the cafeteria he was supposed to be meeting his family and friends in, is actually a dead end. “Huh.” 

“Need a knight in shining arm-or to come save you?” 

“Ha fucking ha, Shirogane. I know where I’m going,” he replies, and winds up at another dead end. He swears under his breath. 

“Oh yeah? Cuz it sure looks like you know where you’re going.” When Lance turns his chair to be facing the other way, Shiro is there grinning like a total idiot. A hot, muscled, gorgeous idiot. Lance almost swoons. 

“Are you following me? I might have to call security,” Lance warns as Shiro takes his place behind Lance, taking over the whole moving the wheelchair part. Which is good because his arms are getting tired, but he would never admit that. His cellphone is slipped back into his bag. 

“I’ll just fight them off with my magic metal arm.” 

“Mm, sounds hot.” 

Shiro laughs, and his breath ghosts over the shell of Lance’s ear. He shivers. 

“Almost there, you just took a wrong turn.” 

“Oh, I forgot they redid this floor back in April.” 

“Figured.” 

When they finally end up in the cafeteria, he’s greeted by a few screams from his sister, and warm welcomes from his parents. Hunk and Pidge stand awkwardly off to the side as they all crowd around Shiro and him. 

And even though they spent the whole night with him, they still act like Shiro is this celebrity they can’t get enough of. His mom continues to fawn over him. While Shiro gets caught up in idle chatter (he did it to himself, Lance isn’t getting him out of that one), he wheels himself over to where his friends are. 

“Get a load of those two lovebirds,” he coos, nodding to his mom and Shiro. 

Pidge snorts. 

“Almost as disgusting as when he’s with you.” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know that he is not _disgusting_. Disgustingly beautiful maybe but not —“ 

“Gross, Lance.” Hunk fake gags which sends Lance and Pidge into a laughing fit. And Lance almost feels the familiarity of it. Seeing Pidge is still... weird. Especially since they’re so set on him absolutely knowing them. But whatever. At least they can fall back into being comfortable with each other. 

And Lance really hopes Shiro is out of earshot as they start gossiping about the roundness of his thighs because _damn_. 

And it’s not at all suspicious when they all shut up as soon as he steps into the circle they’ve formed. 

“I hope my mom didn’t try to kill you.” Lance says awkwardly with a smile, and Shiro braces himself on Lance’s chair, brushing one long strand of hair out of his face and tucking it behind his ear. The action leaves Lance staring up at him in wonder as he starts to talk to Hunk and Pidge with that dazzling smile. 

And then he does this thing that leaves Lance’s toes curling in his boots, leaves his cheeks so red that they put tomatoes to shame. He does this god awful, terrible, _perfect_ thing that leaves him breathless and in awe. 

In front of everyone, Shiro just leans down and kisses him square on the mouth and then just... keeps talking like it’s no big deal. And to everyone else, they just keep chatting about their plans, and their days and whatever the else fucking small talk they have going on. 

And Lance is just there, jaw dropped and gawking up at Shiro like it’s the most scandalous thing he’s ever seen. Shiro pays him little attention, just keeps wooing his friends. Like their third kiss wasn’t something to die for. Like that wasn’t a world altering, life changing thing he just did. Just casually kissing him in front of his entire family. 

“Yeah, I heard they have good pizza,” is the part of the conversation Lance finally settles on listening to. His hand finds Shiro where it is rested on the handle of his chair. Their fingers mingle. 

He ignores when Hunk’s eyebrows raise a little bit, but he doesn’t say anything. The death glare Lance sends him shuts him right up. 

When Lance’s mom comes to warn her that they should get going so Lance can get his things moved in, he hesitates, fingers gripping Shiro’s metal hand tighter in his grip. 

“We could stay just a little bit longer, couldn’t we?” 

His mom gives him a sad smile. 

“Lance —“ 

“But moooooooom,” he whines like a little kid, and he fake pouts. “I’m the one who got shot, I should —“ 

“Lance Charles McClain, that is no way to talk to your mother,” his father reprimands, and he shrinks back. 

“Sorry, dad, it’s just... never mind.” He steals one last longing glance at Shiro. 

His family starts gathering their things. Hunk and Pidge take their leave after promising Lance they’ll be over later with pizza. 

That’s when Shiro presses something cold into his hand. His phone. 

“I’ll call you later,” he promises, and kisses Lance’s stubble covered head. It’s starting to grow out more now, almost at a grabbing-length. Shiro ruffles his hand through it. 

“Talk to you later, Takashi.” 

The nickname makes them both blush as their fingertips break apart. 

As his parents wheel him out of the hospital, as he breathes the outside air for the first time in literal years, as he watches Shiro walk away without so much as another glance back, he feels something break in his chest. They pretend not to see him cry as they load him in the car for the trip home. 

_”It’ll get easier,” Shiro had promised earlier last night._

_“How do you know?”_

_“I’ve been right here,” and he sticks his finger in Lance’s chest. They’re pressed so closed, sharing the same space, the same bed. “And look at me now.”_

_Lance shakes with a little laugh._

_“I guess.”_

_“You guess? Are you not saying I’m perfectly well adjusted and amazing?” Shiro teases, fake hurt lacing his words._

_Lance snuggles closer, arms winding around Shiro’s middle._

_“Of course you are, Takashi.”_

_“And someday you will be too.”_

_And there’s that promise of someday again. Maybe it’ll come sooner than Lance thinks._

###### 

From the bushes he waits. Watching. The unsuspecting family can’t see him from where he crouches behind the colorful flowers lining their driveway. He presses the call button on his watch that’s pressed tight against the pale skin of his wrist. 

“Target in my sights. Engage?” He drawls, and waits for a response. The other line crackles to life. 

“In pursuit,” it answers. 

He sneers. 

Let the fun begin.

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My New Tumblr](http://www.voltrons-oracle.tumblr.com)
> 
> Tags are updated, could be seen as a spoiler or a clue. ;) 
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading :)


	7. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: triggers and a warning about content is found at the end of the chapter. I’ll include a summary there so if that’s upsetting to you, you can skip this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. :)

Being in his own home feels weird. He’d been spending most of his nights at the hospital in the break room, taking up the majority of the couch for a couple hours before keeping Lance company while he slept. And no, he wasn’t getting paid overtime, but so what? He liked keeping his favorite (only) patient company. 

Most of those nights consisted with his hand in Lance’s, keeping him grounded so he wouldn’t get nightmares. 

And it helped Shiro too. 

His little house in the suburbs is quiet and clean, just how he last left it. He hasn’t been here in a few days, and it smells like stale air. He reaches to turn on the ceiling fan to get the breeze moving things around. It helps him to breathe easier. 

The kitchen jitters to life as he starts placing pots and pans here and there with loud clanks of metal against metal. 

“Shiro.” 

He jumps out of his skin, breath stuttering in his chest. His gaze lands on Keith, who’s lounging casually against the wall, arms folded over his chest, scowl firmly in place. 

“Hey, I know I haven’t been home in a few —“ 

“Lance got transferred to Marmora.” 

“What?” He breathes, eyebrows raising. “That’s great! So is he your patient, or...” 

“Yeah.” 

Silence looms between them for several long moments. Shiro nods his head. 

“He’s a good kid.” 

“Seems like more than that to you,” he teases. When Shiro tries to stumble over a clever response, Keith just turns on his heel and walks back into the living room with a laugh. “Guess I’ll hear all about it on Monday.” 

Shiro cards his fingers through his hair, bracing himself on the kitchen counter with his other hand. He sighs. 

Of course Lance would run his mouth about him. Or maybe he’s giving himself too much credit. Maybe Lance has already forgotten about him at this point. 

With that thought souring his mood, he stirs the noodles he’s making. He hears the television pop to life, blaring loudly as Keith switches between channels in the other room. 

“He likes coloring,” Shiro tells Keith, who brushes him off. 

“Sure, sure. We have different ways of rehab, Shiro. I’ll figure it out on my own. I don’t need to hear all about your sappy sessions with your boyfriend.” 

“Hey Keith, when did you get home?” Shiro calls after a beat. Usually he’s at work later than this, they both are. 

“About five minutes after you did, why? Zarkon sent me home early.” 

“Just wondering, not often we get to talk about patients together.” 

He hears Keith snort. 

“This is me actively not talking about work and trying to relax. You should try it sometime.” 

Shiro shakes his head. 

“Sure, I’ll try that,” he mutters to himself, getting lost in the twist and turn of sauces, spices, and food in various spots on his oven. The kitchen and living room are loud, the house is actually filled with color and people, unlike most days. 

Shiro hums to himself as he works, happiness bubbling up in his chest. Thoughts of Lance dance in his head. He laughs about the memories of them together, and hope bubbles in his chest. Maybe with Lance as Keith’s patient, he’d be able to see him again sometime. He phone is heavy in his pocket, but he doesn’t dare pick it up. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from calling Lance, and he doesn’t feel like embarrassing himself even more. 

He’s so busy he doesn’t even notice the television abruptly being turned off. Keith is probably just heading to his room to finish up his notes. 

He absentmindedly starts to dance and flit from place to place as he gathers plates and utensils. 

“Dinner time!” He calls, but gets no response. 

He turns around to go find a silent Keith, he’s probably just nodding off in his computer chair like usual. 

Instead, what unfolds in front of him, is something unlike anything he’s ever seen in day to day life. He’s seen it in the war so many times it’s unfunny, so many times he can’t even count. 

His heart stops, and he has to clamp down on the rising panic that starts as a buzz in his extremities that migrates and makes his heart pound so loud he can hear it in his ears. He can taste it on his tongue. 

“Well hello there, Shiro. Pleasure to finally meet you and your... acquaintance.” 

The tall man is pale, with long, sinuous arms that hold Keith’s slumped over body upright, a knife pressed tight against his throat. The man’s hair is long and white, his eyes dark and tantalizing. 

Shiro freezes, he dares not make a move. 

The man clucks his tongue. 

“Now, are you going to be good for me, or am I going to have to hurt your friend here?” He teases, blade slipping a little closer to Keith. Shiro jolts forward as if to stop him, but plants his feet and becomes stone again, eyes wide and watching each movement like a hawk. “Uh-uh, Shiro. You better stay right there. Any closer and I might just have to...” he trails off, and presses the knife so close against Keith’s skin that it breaks it, blood trailing out in a thin line to settle into the collar of his shirt. 

Shiro inhales sharply and grinds his teeth. 

“What do you want?” He dares to breathe. 

“Oh, what do I want? It’s simple. Are you listening closely, _captain_?” Shiro nods his head once. “Good.” 

The man lets Keith’s unconscious body slam into the floor. Shiro winces inwardly. He wants to reach out and make sure Keith’s okay, but he knows it would mean the end of both of them. And just the beginning of whatever this man’s plans are. 

“See, what you don’t know will be your demise.” He saunters closer to Shiro and presses himself against him. The smell of him makes Shiro gag. “What you friend here has so... dumbly left out for you, is that your little _friend_ will be walking in here. Well, not walking. And well... not too long to go now.” 

“Friend?” 

“Hmm, what’s his name now... Lance, is it?” He drawls, and all the muscles in Shiro’s body lock up. 

“No.” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Look, whatever you want just leave him out of it.” 

“Oh, but what would be the fun in that?” The man sneers, evil smile stretching his lips over yellowing teeth. 

“What do you want from me?” Shiro tries again. 

“Don’t you know?” He pushes in closer, knife twisting dangerously between his long fingers. He’s so close now that Shiro has no choice but to bare his neck and close his eyes so he doesn’t see what comes next. “Don’t you remember anything from that day, dear Shiro?” 

“What day?” 

“The day you lost this,” he hisses, and his fingers brush against the metal of Shiro’s arm. 

“What are you talking ab —“ 

“If you would just shut that pretty mouth of yours, I might tell you.” As if on cue, he can hear the ring of the doorbell. The man grins wickedly. “Perfect timing. Now I can tell the story to the entire audience.” 

As soon as the man is swaying his hips out of the room to answer the door, Shiro is fumbling with the phone left in his pants pocket, trying his best not to crush it in his hand while he dials nine-one-one. 

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” 

“We need help immediately,” he stage whispers into the phone. He can hear that man sweet talking to Lance, or whoever is behind the door. God, he prays it’s not Lance. He rattles off his address and then hides the phone, but leaves the line connected. 

When the man saunters back in, Lance being wheeled in beside him by Hunk, his face drops. His knuckles are white where they grip the counter for leverage behind him. Breath coming out faster and faster between his parted lips. Fear freezes him in place. 

Lance’s smile falls off his face when he sees a bloodied Keith slumped on the floor. 

“Wha —“ Lance breathes. 

“The fuck —“ Hunk tries.

Shiro screws his eyes shut. 

“Lance,” he tries. “I fucked up.” 

“Lotor, why did you —“ He hears Lance almost growl, and then the world goes black.

###### 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of blood, war, knives, mild violence, and a kidnapping-esque situation. 
> 
> Summary: Shiro goes home, he lives with Keith who is also a physical therapist. Keith mentions that Zarkon, his boss, sent him home early. When Shiro starts making dinner, he gets caught up in his thoughts and doesn’t hear someone enter the home. Lotor hurts Keith and knocks him unconscious and threatens Lance. Lance’s first session is with Keith at their home that night. Shiro is unaware of that, and starts panicking. Lotor insinuates that he knows what happened to Shiro in the war. Lance knows Lotor by name, but before Shiro can respond, he’s knocked unconscious. Before that he calls 911, but will they get there in time? 
> 
> Thank you again so much for reading!


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